


Surrender

by exbex



Series: Eccentricities by Osmosis [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mycroft try to repair their marriage after John's infidelity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> If the summary makes you go D: worry not; I'm committed to happy endings for this series.

Mycroft does the courtesy of firing off a text message warning John of his impending kidnapping, and then wonders idly if their therapist would praise him for being considerate. He has to curse himself for indulging in sentiment when John walks through the doors of the Diogenes Club looking wary. It clashes with the memory of John boldly walking in and declaring his intentions, which stirs a dank well of resentment in Mycroft that those intentions and promises had been forgotten in one moment of drunken stupidity.

He pushes them down. Progress.

He goes through the ritual of making tea, not because he thinks it will reassure John (it won’t, not today. John takes comfort in rituals only sparingly, when life hums along at something of a routine, not when he’s waiting), but because it calms him. This is good news, he reminds himself. John will find it to be pleasing; his eyebrows will stretch apart with surprise, not knit together with worry. If Mycroft were a man whose hands ever shook, they would be shaking now.

“I’ve decided to retire.” There is no sense in delaying the news any longer. John pauses with his cup halfway to his lips, saucer in his other hand. His eyebrows do stretch apart with surprise, and the entire picture would be endearing if their marriage were not such a mess. John manages to place his cup and saucer back together and set them carefully on the tea tray. “When?” The question is like an iceberg, the tip showing above the water while a million more are scrambled together beneath the surface.

“When did I decide or when is it official?”

“Both,” John answers, and he places his hands on top of his thighs.

“Christmas, and the first of June.” It’s the beginning of April now, and while the saccharine symbolism is not lost on Mycroft, he refuses to summon the energy to care. It feels much like plunging into icy waters to add further explanation, but he hastens to do so. “I’ve accepted a teaching position at Birkbeck.”

“In economics?” John takes advantage of Mycroft’s pause to lean forward in interest, to demonstrate that he knows, quite well, exactly where Mycroft’s interests lie and that he remembers the unused doctoral degree, knows why Mycroft went into government instead.

“Yes,” Mycroft responds simply. “I’ll begin in September.”

John rests his hands on his legs but doesn’t lean back. Mycroft counts to fifty-six seconds before John reaches for his cup once again.

“I’m no longer as irreplaceable as I’d once been in this position,” as he pours himself some tea and settles into the chair opposite John, Mycroft begins to casually answer John’s questions instead of asking John to articulate his thoughts. Their therapist would be disappointed. “And the need to keep tabs on Sherlock has become…obsolete.”

“And your practice of keeping tabs on Sherlock, Greg, and myself has your doctor in a state over your blood pressure,” John continues wryly, “the doctor you think I didn’t know about who prescribed the statins that you think are hidden well in the bottom right-hand drawer of that desk.” John nods to the afore-mentioned desk.

This should be a moment in which John looks smug and Mycroft would raise an eyebrow, impressed. But they haven’t had any of those moments in months.

“This is what you want.” It’s not clear from John’s tone whether it’s a question or a statement. “It’s what you’ve really wanted to do for a long time.” The so why now goes unasked, and Mycroft takes a slow sip before answering it. “This will give me more…flexible time.”

John looks up from his cup with a sense of cautious optimism and then the moment is interrupted by the chime of his phone. Mycroft uses it to his advantage, standing to dismiss while he still has control of the situation. “You should get that.”

John looks like he wants to protest. He also looks like he wants to say something but can’t find the words. Instead he looks at his mobile, resigned. “Case,” he says unnecessarily. “I’ll…see you tomorrow then?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replies, and they both give pained smiles. While they concede the necessity of marriage counseling, neither of them relishes it.

John begins to lean forward awkwardly, as if he’s not sure whether a handshake is appropriate while also being sure that he’d like to initiate a more intimate gesture, however subtle. Mycroft intercepts by swiftly opening the door, holding it for John’s exit. He doesn’t miss the disappointed look.

The predictable text comes hours later.. What’s the current level? SH

Sherlock isn’t asking about terrorism threats, but divorce, a system he had invented months ago, on the heels of John’s indiscretion and Sherlock’s unceremonious but quietly furious banishing from the Baker Street flat that he and John both still lived in part-time. Mycroft had kept his wits about him and told Sherlock in no uncertain terms that, while the threat stood at substantial, that it was unnecessary that Sherlock and John’s friendship should suffer. Sherlock allowed John back into the flat, only to drive him away with particularly obnoxious violin-playing and rather explosive experiments, as well as what could only be termed as a formidable silent treatment. John, finding no solace in the homes of his sister, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, was forced to seek shelter with an old uni mate. Mycroft barely managed to hide his own relishing of this fact.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Either this is one of Sherlock’s somewhat clumsy attempts to demonstrate his concern for his brother, or John has managed to school his expression and hide his emotions. The former is more likely than the latter, though both are rather rare occurences.

Moderate. MH

 

**

“You’re afraid that my retirement is a direct result of your infidelity, and that I will come to regret this choice, even though you recognize that this is an entirely irrational fear on your part.”

“Mycroft, we’ve discussed the importance of allowing John to express his own thoughts.” Anna doesn’t look up from her notes as she reprimands him. “And you’re paying me because your intellectual abilities far exceed those of your emotional abilities.”

Mycroft is about to reprimand when John interrupts. “To be fair, Anna, it hardly requires a psychology degree to deduce that one.”

“Says the man who has a hero complex the size of this building,” Mycroft snaps.

Anna intercepts John’s retort. “I will charge for another hour if your goading of Mycroft impedes our progress John. Now Mycroft, I would like you talk openly about your decision to retire and change careers.”

Mycroft exhales, slowly. “It’s become work. A job. It used to be an accomplishment.”

“And will this new career bring you new accomplishments?” Anna is looking at him. She’s let go of her pen, laying it on top of her notebook. It’s in danger of falling off, of rolling behind a chair, or a desk, of going unfound, unused.

“It will give this…marriage, less time to…stagnate.” He can see John tense out of the corner of his eye.

“John?” Anna looks at him, expectantly.

“You think that the consequence of my moment of drunken stupidity…” He pauses. “Sorry, of my selfish, impetuous decision, is somehow related to you…working too much.”

“Are you trying to tell me that it’s not?” Mycroft forces himself to look at John, and it’s somehow more difficult than staring down every psychopath and arrogant dictator he’s ever had to face.

“It’s not the job, or how many hours.” John meets his gaze, unwavering. “If you see something you want, you go after it. You don’t…settle.”

“And damn the consequences, I suppose?” Mycroft waits expectantly for Anna’s reprimand, but it doesn’t come.

“No,” John’s voice threatens to break. “And damn that you think caring too much is going to put a dent in that armor that you think protects you.”

**

Mycroft sits alone, protected, in a well-secured house, staring at his mobile phone, and wanting.

He wants, desperately; to call John, ask him to come over, to put everything behind them.

He can’t. It would open him, leave him exposed.

The text comes, but from the entirely wrong person. The two of you can stop being utter prats at any time. SH

If only it were that simple.

He’s lost himself in brooding once again, and startles when the phone sounds. Level? SH

He sighs before typing out Substantial. MH and sending.

**

“Our parents had both died by the time I was finishing my degree. The decision to work for MI5 was because of Sherlock. He needed a certain amount of looking after. The position was demanding, but allowed for a certain amount of advancement and the ability to keep watch on Sherlock, however remotely.”

“This wasn’t exactly the first time you felt that your involvement was needed at a high level.”

Mycroft represses a sigh. He dislikes these sessions with Anna even more than he dislikes the joint sessions. “No, of course not. Sherlock has always had the qualities of a supernova.”

Anna pauses for just a moment, before proceeding with her characteristic straight-forward nature. “That’s a very interesting metaphor, Mycroft.”

Mycroft gives a sardonic smile. He knows what she suspects; that he feels that Sherlock has always exceeded him, in nearly everything, with few exceptions. What she doesn’t understand is that it’s not nearly that simple. Picking up pieces and cleaning up messes has never bothered him. Taking up space in the background, being a supporting player, is a role he was born to play. But it’s not Sherlock’s theater that he wants to take center stage in.

“Do you feel as if you’ve spent most of your energy on the needs of others?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. He’s given entirely of himself, taking less than what he gives. If it weren’t so tedious, he’d tell her that the source of the over-eating habits that he’d once held and still fought were due to this same issue.

Only John had given more than he’d demanded, knowingly or otherwise, John who had, surprisingly, been enough for what Sherlock needed him to be and enough for what Mycroft needed. John, who Mycroft had believed himself to be enough for. As much as John insisted that his infidelity was the product of his own poor choices and an old bad habit of self-medication with alcohol and casual sex, Mycroft could not silence the voice that told him that he, Mycroft Holmes, as much as he sought to be a bottomless well for the sake of others, was not enough, had not been enough.

Mycroft doesn’t say any of this to Anna. She’s competent, impressive, but it doesn’t take her level of knowledge to deduce Mycroft’s issues and complexes.

**

“Sherlock told me the threat level never goes above Substantial.”

It’s their version of a date, something Anna had prescribed as a method to repair their bond. It’s not the first time they’ve built a relationship with resentment between them, but the first time had come as a pleasant surprise. This feels like a race against time, a race run in water, while being weighed down.

“That’s correct.” Mycroft responds and waits for John to comment further, tearing his eyes away from his water glass and the way the ripples time with the vibrations caused by people walking on the pavement that runs alongside their outdoor table.

“You want this to work.” John is peering at him through half-lidded eyes, the sunlight forcing him to squint. Mycroft wonders why he doesn’t shift his chair. 

“That much should be obvious,” he replies. He pauses. “Do you?”

“I can’t ask you to give back the one thing that you keep from everyone, not after what I did. But I can’t do this without it.”

Mycroft runs a thumb down the perspiration of the glass. “So I suppose we’ve reached a Stalemate.” When he looks up, John looks weary. Mycroft’s own chest constricts. “John,” he says, “I’ll have more time once I’ve retired, my new position won’t be so demanding. I won’t keep you from cases…” his own words sound foolish and desperate to him, but he can’t seem to stop them.

“It’s not your fault, Mycroft. It never was. Just…I’m the one who needs to change; I’m the one who needs to be forgiven.”

“You’ve already been forgiven, John. I forgave you months ago-“

“Then why do you pull away from me every time I get near you?” John interrupts, and Mycroft is forced to look down and see that he is, indeed, pulling away from John’s touch, unknowingly. Inwardly, he bristles, whether at the meaning behind the action, or that his instincts are acting on their own accord, outside of his consciousness, he’s unsure.

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.” It’s not any more of an answer than it was the last time he said those words. When he looks up again to meet John’s gaze, he expects to see anger, or hurt, and then realizes that he shouldn’t be surprised to see a wry look instead, just as he shouldn’t have missed the subtle differences that a few short years have brought: a few more lines around the eyes, grey hair slowly creeping up the temples.

“Well, Mycroft Holmes, if all lives end and all hearts are broken, isn’t it a fairly obvious deduction that self-preservation isn’t an advantage either?”

Losing control of the conversation wasn’t something he was accustomed to, and John Watson had a peculiar combination of cleverness and tenacity.

“That’s inductive reasoning, not deductive reasoning.”

“My mistake,” John answered with a raised eyebrow. It switched, in one fluid movement, to furrowing with the other, almost unnoticeable. It was like a note in a sheet of music. “Take me back,” he says quietly. “I’ll do anything…”

“You don’t need me. You have Sherlock for the important things and….” Mycroft stops, no longer possessing the energy or the will to be vindictive, to throw John’s lapse of self-control in his face. “You have Sherlock.” It’s a conundrum that once challenged Mycroft, but lately has only maddened him. What use is he to John Watson?

“I want you.” John is resolute, his mouth in a firm line, which softens as his tone softens. “I want you,” he repeats.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Why should there even be a reason?”

“Don’t be absurd, John.”

“Says the man who’s a confirmed atheist.” John leans forward, and the challenge in his eyes is more like him, and Mycroft feels his resolve crumbling. “You don’t need me either, and maybe you don’t want me anymore. But you did. You asked me why; I think I have the right to ask as well. Why?”

Because you saw right through me. And once you had accomplished that you entrapped me. Because you are what I can’t be for my brother and for some reason I don’t hate you for it. But sometimes I wish I could for making me this vulnerable.

**

The ability to predict-a course of action, the reactions of various people, his own responses as well as those of others, has always served Mycroft well. So when the day of his retirement comes and none of his predicted responses (meaning apprehension, or maybe panic, over losing his powers of surveillance over John, Sherlock, and Lestrade) actually occur, Mycroft is struck with the sense that it truly is time to be finished. 

Indeed, instead of feeling even a modicum of anxiety or even anticipation, Mycroft feels only a sense of weariness. Perhaps if his attempted reconciliation with John hadn’t stalled, he would be able to muster a bit of excitement. He pauses on the pavement, attempting to drudge up a sense of optimism so that he can distract himself from the thought of going home and consuming an obscene amount of scotch at this point in the afternoon. He has some time before his first term; maybe he can think of a new approach to mending his marriage. 

Why bother; a thought escapes before he can stamp it down. He doesn’t need you.

Mycroft’s thoughts are interrupted by the presence of a car at the kerb that does not contain his usual driver. He raises an eyebrow when Greg Lestrade steps out of the driver’s side.

“Thought I’d give your driver the afternoon off,” he says in the self-assured way that is a more recent addition to his demeanor.

“That’s very obliging of you,” Mycroft replies as he accepts the offer.

“Well, I date Sherlock Holmes, I’m used to being ‘obliging’” Greg teases, and Mycroft is able to manage a small smile.

He fumbles with the key just slightly as Greg drives off, and begins to rethink the idea of the scotch. He begins down the hallway to his study, where he keeps the bottle that he’s tentatively saved for this day.

Mycroft should be more surprised than he is at the sight of John Watson in his study, carefully aligning books on the shelves. Even in his weariness, Mycroft is able to sweep the room in his eyes and take in subtle changes. For years the room had shown no indication that it was anything other than a generic office, but now there are small changes. John has acquired photographs and degrees and placed them in a seemingly casual manner.

“You never asked for your key back,” John states as he turns around to face Mycroft. “You used everything but the physical to keep me out.” John inhales slowly, as if he’s about to dive into deep waters. “But I’m not letting you shut me out. I don’t have to the right to ask you for anything. But I’m willing to beg. I’ve never begged for a thing in my life except for what I don’t deserve.”

In the most intense moments of his life, Mycroft has always had to make decisions under incredible pressure. A peculiar thing occurs in that moment, a great calm, as if he enters the eye of a hurricane. Mycroft doesn’t believe in instinct generally, but in those moments he relies on instincts created by discipline of thought, by the ability to draw conclusions, and, so rarely, by a profound caring. He has had enough of those moments that he recognizes them for what they are. This is one of those moments.

He realizes that he still has an umbrella in one hand and a briefcase in the other, and he ignores the desire to toss them aside carelessly, setting them next to the desk instead. He marvels at the steadiness of his hands for just a moment as he finds himself wrapping his arms around his partner, letting his fingers drift into John’s hair, breathing in his scent. “I’m finished with wasting time, Love.”

John is shaking, and his breathing is barely controlled. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says, and from a lesser man, it would sound like a pitiful promise, a pleading, but the determined look in his eyes nearly makes Mycroft go weak. Old habits, patterns of thoughts (unhealthy ones, Anna would say) emerge briefly, the almost frantic sense of needing to keep the upper hand seep through Mycroft’s defenses, but he pushes them away. The moment is all he has, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, he’s determined to live within it. If John Watson needs something of a penance, Mycroft can let him have it.

“Starting now?” he asks, a teasing smile pulling at his mouth.

John answers with a relieved smile. “Now.”


End file.
